Mackerel
Out of mind’s vast blue deep
they come,
racing into coves,
flashes of silver bearing
black- barred stanzas,
writing ripples.
You don’t call mackerel.
You know the tide
and go out in your boat
or onto the pier
and you wait,
knowing that unless
a line or net is in the water
no one ever catches the
meaning
or the music.